if the heavens ever did speak
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
He saw the color and he didn’t see the color.
The color is like the memories, a bird beating against the glass. The color, perhaps, is the memories, stained a rich purple, so dark it’s nearly black.
(You almost can’t tell. In the dark, you can’t tell at all. It isn’t until the light shines on that he’s betrayed for what he is, what happened.)
(There are no clouds. There is only purple.)
He forgets he is purple. He forgets the clown. The tiger with no face.
(He dreams, and they are back. The clown is laughing, or maybe screaming. The knife is carving a name into his belly. He is drowning. He is burning.She loves us. She loves us. She loves us.)
Wait--
Someone is speaking. He stiffens, and his mind jumps out of him like a startled deer. For a moment it goes into her and there are figures, memory-creatures, a cracked goodbye and the sorrow overwhelms him, stuffing his lungs and heart.
It’s a moment, no more than a second or two, and he is jolted back into his own mind, back into the purple, the ghoulish depths.
Wait--
He is out of her mind but she followed, teeth press against him like he’s something real, something tangible. It’s the first time he’s been touched since
(leta)
(nerissa)
(god)
before he can remember. Who was the last to touch him?
There was a girl. There was no girl. He is not a toy. He is real.
Sleaze, he thinks, my name is Sleaze.
She is a color, and he sees it like he cannot see his own. Indigo, shades lighter than he, flecked with gold in her mane like she’d captured sunshine there. But more, there is something to her, some invisible brand they both wear, and ah, how his memory shakes.
There was no girl, he thinks, unsure why, there was no fire.
He is shaking, too, and he wonders if she can tell.
(Of course she can.)
“You…” he says, but there’s nothing beyond that, no name, no description for what she - they - are.
“How did you get your color?” is how he finishes. Surely she was born with it. They all seem to be, these days, rainbows bred across Beqanna. The memories sigh like ghosts behind the curtains, threatening to come through, to bring him to his knees.
sleaze
cancer x garbage
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